At least he's hot
folder
Final Fantasy VII › Yaoi - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
17
Views:
1,208
Reviews:
126
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Final Fantasy VII › Yaoi - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
17
Views:
1,208
Reviews:
126
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Final Fantasy VII, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
the next morning
Chapter three: The next morning
When Rufus woke up, all he was able to comprehend for several minutes was the magnitude of his hangover. It wasn't just any hangover that could be cured with aspirin and a glass of water - this one was a monster. His head was throbbing in rhythm with his heartbeat, his eyes ached in their sockets, and his mouth was so dry his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. For several minutes, movement of any kind was out of the question... all he could do was lay there with his eyes closed and wish he'd never been born. The night was still a complete void in his head... he remembered going to the bar, drinking shots, and then... what?
He rolled onto his side, hoping that possibly a different position would relieve the throbbing pain in his head. Infact, it just made it worse. He desperately clutched his head, rubbing his temples with his thumbs. That was no help either.
“Motherfucker...” he hoarsely rasped. Even his voice sounded like shit. Yup, it was going to be a shitty day no matter what he did. Sighing, he opened his eyes, knowing that light was just going to be an inevitable annoyance of the day. Rather, peeled them open - they were crusted shut.
Well, it wasn't as bad as he expected. He had left the lights on, but they were dim. Surveying his surroundings from his sideways vantage point, he saw various clues to what might have happened on this apparently wild and crazy night. His shirt and pants were strewn carelessly across the room, and his belt was hanging on the bedpost. OK, so it was pretty obvious he had sex. He cursed whoever it was that invented whiskey, searching his dehydrated, lurching brain for a scrap of memory. By god, who the hell was it? His vision swung down to the bedsheets as he lost himself in thought, and there it was. The last clue to set all the pieces in place.
It wasn't just a drop or two of blood... there was a lot, spattered across the sheets as if it had been coughed up. Timidly, he felt his face with his fingertips... his jaw was sore and felt swollen.
As if on queue, all his memories flooded back into his brain. Only the solemn ring of a church bell would have made the name more ominous as it reverberated through his skull. Sephiroth. Yeah, that was right. He finally got down Sephiroth's pants. It wasn't the romantic fling he had hoped for, though... the dried blood on the sheet was proof.
At first he was nice... he walked me home... he reminisced.
All of the sudden, he felt nauseous. He curled into a ball, hoping that it would pass, but the feeling didn't go away. He always got the worst damn hangovers...
Then I saw his eyes...
The feeling got worse. He somberly realized that if he didn't get up, there was going to be puke and blood on the bed. Life was full of tough decisions.
Just from those eyes I could tell he was insane...
There was definitely more work involved in puking on the bed. He'd have to clean it, and then he'd probably puke again...
Yet for some reason, I didn't care. He was too damn hot to say no to...
OK. It was urgent. He was gonna puke. Like a zombie raised from the dead, he sat up, crawled to the edge of the bed, and lurched onto his feet.
So I took him here. We made out.. he was one hell of a kisser...
One step at a time, he plodded with hazed determination to the bathroom, grimly fighting down the bile that was rising in his throat.
And then... then he went nuts. I tried to get away... I tried to hit him... but I guess that was a stupid thing to do to a world renowned fighter...
Holy shit, it was matter of seconds before he puked. He desperately swung open the door to the bathroom, nearly falling onto the tiled floor in the process.
So then he hit me.
The bathroom was dark and he was too fucking half-drunk to find the light, so he stumbled forward with his arms outstretched, seeking the familiar porcelain bowl.
He stripped me...
His hands felt cold, smooth porcelain, just in time for him to lunge over the bowl and puke.
He bound me...
His own retching echoed through his apartment as he blew chunks, dinner coming first
Then he sucked my cock...
followed by some creme brulee
And then he fucked my ass....
and finished with a long, painful stream of whiskey. Exhausted, he could do nothing but hang his head over the bowl for a while, afraid that any sudden movement would make him dry heave. In those few, dark moments, he managed to piece together the final facts of his insane, drunken screw.
He made me cum harder than I've ever came in my life. It was so intense I passed out... or maybe it was the pain. Whiskey probably helped.
He blinked. The obvious end to the story finally became clear in his head.
Then he untied me and left. He must have.. right?
After flushing down his puke, rinsing out his mouth, and taking a piss, he ambled through the apartment, checking the rooms to make sure there wasn't an insane, half-naked general waiting inside any of them. There wasn't. Sephiroth was gone without a trace. Rufus felt a pang of disappointment for some reason. After all that abuse he couldn't even stick around for the night? His search ended in the kitchen, where he glumly poured himself a glass a water, spilling some of it as he gulped it down.
What a fuckin' player. No... *player* doesn't do him justice. I don't think there's even a word to describe him...
More pressing matters took precedence in his mind as he caught a glimpse of the digital clock above the stove. It was two in the afternoon, which meant he was two hours late for work. That meant he was going to get yelled at by his dad, who would give him an assignment just as a punishment, which would lead to a long, sleepless night spent hunched over paperwork. He knew the drill. It had happened before. Apparently, his day was going to be even worse than he originally thought. He slammed the empty glass down on the counter and skulked back to his bedroom, a foul mood brewing on top of his migraine. Muttering a stream of curses, he gathered some respectable articles of clothing and tossed them on, getting a glimpse of his tired, pale face in a mirror as he wrestled on his boots. He snorted. A sizeable bruise marred his left cheek, and there was a hickey on his neck.
I'll have fun explaining *that* to everyone today...
He rolled up the collar of his black turtleneck as far as it would go, and left the apartment, grimacing at the thought of all the shit he was going to have to deal with throughout the day. And the worst of it all was, what the fuck was he gonna do when he saw Sephiroth?
When Rufus woke up, all he was able to comprehend for several minutes was the magnitude of his hangover. It wasn't just any hangover that could be cured with aspirin and a glass of water - this one was a monster. His head was throbbing in rhythm with his heartbeat, his eyes ached in their sockets, and his mouth was so dry his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. For several minutes, movement of any kind was out of the question... all he could do was lay there with his eyes closed and wish he'd never been born. The night was still a complete void in his head... he remembered going to the bar, drinking shots, and then... what?
He rolled onto his side, hoping that possibly a different position would relieve the throbbing pain in his head. Infact, it just made it worse. He desperately clutched his head, rubbing his temples with his thumbs. That was no help either.
“Motherfucker...” he hoarsely rasped. Even his voice sounded like shit. Yup, it was going to be a shitty day no matter what he did. Sighing, he opened his eyes, knowing that light was just going to be an inevitable annoyance of the day. Rather, peeled them open - they were crusted shut.
Well, it wasn't as bad as he expected. He had left the lights on, but they were dim. Surveying his surroundings from his sideways vantage point, he saw various clues to what might have happened on this apparently wild and crazy night. His shirt and pants were strewn carelessly across the room, and his belt was hanging on the bedpost. OK, so it was pretty obvious he had sex. He cursed whoever it was that invented whiskey, searching his dehydrated, lurching brain for a scrap of memory. By god, who the hell was it? His vision swung down to the bedsheets as he lost himself in thought, and there it was. The last clue to set all the pieces in place.
It wasn't just a drop or two of blood... there was a lot, spattered across the sheets as if it had been coughed up. Timidly, he felt his face with his fingertips... his jaw was sore and felt swollen.
As if on queue, all his memories flooded back into his brain. Only the solemn ring of a church bell would have made the name more ominous as it reverberated through his skull. Sephiroth. Yeah, that was right. He finally got down Sephiroth's pants. It wasn't the romantic fling he had hoped for, though... the dried blood on the sheet was proof.
At first he was nice... he walked me home... he reminisced.
All of the sudden, he felt nauseous. He curled into a ball, hoping that it would pass, but the feeling didn't go away. He always got the worst damn hangovers...
Then I saw his eyes...
The feeling got worse. He somberly realized that if he didn't get up, there was going to be puke and blood on the bed. Life was full of tough decisions.
Just from those eyes I could tell he was insane...
There was definitely more work involved in puking on the bed. He'd have to clean it, and then he'd probably puke again...
Yet for some reason, I didn't care. He was too damn hot to say no to...
OK. It was urgent. He was gonna puke. Like a zombie raised from the dead, he sat up, crawled to the edge of the bed, and lurched onto his feet.
So I took him here. We made out.. he was one hell of a kisser...
One step at a time, he plodded with hazed determination to the bathroom, grimly fighting down the bile that was rising in his throat.
And then... then he went nuts. I tried to get away... I tried to hit him... but I guess that was a stupid thing to do to a world renowned fighter...
Holy shit, it was matter of seconds before he puked. He desperately swung open the door to the bathroom, nearly falling onto the tiled floor in the process.
So then he hit me.
The bathroom was dark and he was too fucking half-drunk to find the light, so he stumbled forward with his arms outstretched, seeking the familiar porcelain bowl.
He stripped me...
His hands felt cold, smooth porcelain, just in time for him to lunge over the bowl and puke.
He bound me...
His own retching echoed through his apartment as he blew chunks, dinner coming first
Then he sucked my cock...
followed by some creme brulee
And then he fucked my ass....
and finished with a long, painful stream of whiskey. Exhausted, he could do nothing but hang his head over the bowl for a while, afraid that any sudden movement would make him dry heave. In those few, dark moments, he managed to piece together the final facts of his insane, drunken screw.
He made me cum harder than I've ever came in my life. It was so intense I passed out... or maybe it was the pain. Whiskey probably helped.
He blinked. The obvious end to the story finally became clear in his head.
Then he untied me and left. He must have.. right?
After flushing down his puke, rinsing out his mouth, and taking a piss, he ambled through the apartment, checking the rooms to make sure there wasn't an insane, half-naked general waiting inside any of them. There wasn't. Sephiroth was gone without a trace. Rufus felt a pang of disappointment for some reason. After all that abuse he couldn't even stick around for the night? His search ended in the kitchen, where he glumly poured himself a glass a water, spilling some of it as he gulped it down.
What a fuckin' player. No... *player* doesn't do him justice. I don't think there's even a word to describe him...
More pressing matters took precedence in his mind as he caught a glimpse of the digital clock above the stove. It was two in the afternoon, which meant he was two hours late for work. That meant he was going to get yelled at by his dad, who would give him an assignment just as a punishment, which would lead to a long, sleepless night spent hunched over paperwork. He knew the drill. It had happened before. Apparently, his day was going to be even worse than he originally thought. He slammed the empty glass down on the counter and skulked back to his bedroom, a foul mood brewing on top of his migraine. Muttering a stream of curses, he gathered some respectable articles of clothing and tossed them on, getting a glimpse of his tired, pale face in a mirror as he wrestled on his boots. He snorted. A sizeable bruise marred his left cheek, and there was a hickey on his neck.
I'll have fun explaining *that* to everyone today...
He rolled up the collar of his black turtleneck as far as it would go, and left the apartment, grimacing at the thought of all the shit he was going to have to deal with throughout the day. And the worst of it all was, what the fuck was he gonna do when he saw Sephiroth?